


We'll Forget The Tears We Cried

by Herodias



Series: Here Indeed Is The True Lover [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Angst (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Happy Ending, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands Week 2019, LGBTQ, London, London Pride, London Underground, M/M, No beta we fall like Crowley, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Queer Guardian Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Robbie Ross (mentioned), Senses, World War I, World War II, the reason why I usually don't write Aziraphale angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 16:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20531120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herodias/pseuds/Herodias
Summary: It's a matter of balance, after all.Four times Aziraphale and Crowley question their relationship across the 20th century and one time they actually find the answer





	We'll Forget The Tears We Cried

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Ineffable Husbands Week 2019. Day 4: Senses; Touch/Sight/Hearing/Taste/Smell

**Mayfair, 5 November 1918**

He’s not quite sure why he keeps staring out of the window, instead of going back to bed.

The first time he woke up was May 31st, 1915; it’s not easy to sleep while bombs explode all around you, no matter how many miracles you’d previously cast to protect your house against anything that could possibly happen. He didn’t exactly expect a war to happen, nor raids in the middle of London. Crowley used to believe that he could miss even a century and almost nothing would’ve changed; now he knows that this is a brand new world, in which suddenly even so little as 53 years can make a difference. This is called, apparently, “progress”, and whoever invented it didn’t really do a good job.

Going back to sleep in 1915 was out of question. So he’d popped across the Channel, tempted soldiers into disobeying orders and desert, forged reports and documents, instilled fear in generals’ and colonels’ hearts, anything to make those silly humans go home and end this stupid war.

(Had Aziraphale been there, he would’ve sworn that Crowley was just making up excuses to save as many lives as possible. But Aziraphale was in London, helping civilians, which spared the demon the embarrassment of being called nice.)

Now, three years later, he’s back in his flat, in his favourite pyjamas, frustrated. When he closes his eyes he sees death and destruction, trenches and explosions, horribly disfigured bodies and amputated limbs and intestines sprawled all over the place. He feel like he’s going to puke any moment now.

It’s not like he’s never seen such things, he’s a demon after all, he’s fought in so many battles, both among humans and celestial beings. Except this war is different, somehow. He’s not sure why, he just feels it. Maybe it’s the fact that humans keep finding better ways to kill each others, to the point where he should consider retiring for good on another planet, since his job had been stolen by puny mortals centuries ago. Yet, he stays.

He’s not quite sure why he keep staring out of the window, instead of going back to bed. It may, or may not, be related to that guy who died a month ago in the flat on the other side of the road. Or rather, to the figure on the pavement who is staring mournfully at said flat.

Robbie Ross. That’s the dead guy’s name. He’s made researches, while dealing with insomnia. What was so special about him remained a mystery; Ross’ story was one of sorrow, persecution and lost love, as many other men’s. And yet, once in a while, an angel would discreetly miracle some flowers on his doorstep. That was, most likely, due to the fact that these days it’s complicated to get to Paris, where the guy’s buried, side by side with a certain Oscar Wilde, apparently a famous writer.

(Had Crowley been awake, he would’ve probably enjoyed Wilde and his friends’ company. It seemed an unlikely company for Aziraphale, though, so he’d tried reading some of the author’s works to understand. One novel and five short stories later he was still confused, although The Nightingale and the Rose sounded vaguely yet inexplicably familiar. Maybe one day Aziraphale himself would explain it to him, but not now, and not in a long time.)

The angel turns his head and Crowley quickly hides behind the curtain. Through the thin fabric, he sees a face he barely recognises. There’s no softness in those eyes, no joy, no hope; just grief, as deep as the deepest ocean, as dark as the darkest pit. Aziraphale stares longingly at his window. On one side of the road lies the friend who’ll never walk the Earth again; on the other side lies the friend who’ll never walk the Earth again by his side, or so he fears.

“Do you miss me, angel?” Crowley thinks, trying to read his mind and heart, trying to find the old, cheerful Aziraphale behind this mask of sorrow and loss and despair.

“Would you greet me like an old friend or smite the enemy you were never supposed to fraternise with?”

Deep down he knows Aziraphale misses him as much as _he_ misses him, but the rejection still burns on the surface and he feels vulnerable, too vulnerable to be seen. So he keep staring, and Aziraphale keeps staring too, both afraid to make the first step.

“Smile, my angel.” he finds himself thinking “Smile and I’ll know everything’s okay and we can fix this mess and forget about the last 53 years. Smile and I’ll come running to you right now, through the scandal and the bombs. Please.”

But he doesn’t smile. Instead, he blinks away the tears and heads back to Soho.

The world has changed and turned a depressing shade of grey. Quietly, in their own ways, Crowley and Aziraphale have changed too.

**London Underground, 26 February 1944**

He wonders how long his eardrums can resist. Not that he needs them, strictly speaking.

The awful whistle of the bombs is painfully familiar; it reminds him of 1915, a disrupted nap, trenches and bullets and screams that echo through the years. Someone decided that that hadn’t been enough, so here it is, the brand new rerun, with brand new weapons and tortures and horrors. It had took him a whole year, back in 1918, to finally go back to sleep and, as soon as his head hit the pillow, 1939 was there and farewell bed! He didn’t feel rested at all, but one’s gotta do what one’s gotta do, so he joined the Secret Services. No playing with soldiers this time round; he was aiming higher. Strike where it matters, where you have to operate so subtly that neither of the two sides are undoubtedly sure you are working for them. Not Nazis and Allies, not Heaven and Hell. The line between good and evil is so blurred in this new kind of war that it’s incredibly easy for someone like Crowley to do whatever he likes without any higher authority complaining. He’d always craved freedom; this is not the kind he’d hoped for, but it’s something, and that’s a start.

These days, London is disturbingly similar to Hell, except when it’s not. At this point, Crowley’s not sure what he likes best. Lost souls wander, desperately trying to carry on a somewhat normal life, and failing. Children cry, adults weep, sirens wail, bombs explode, all around, all the time. He sometimes suspects that German pilots don’t actually need to see the lights to recognise London, they just have to hush for a bit and follow the broadcast of misery.

And when you think the noise will never stop, it suddenly does. As soon as the raid ends and the last explosion fades into the darkness, Crowley is the first living being to emerge on the surface. He examines the crumpled buildings by the light of the few fires that are yet to be extinguished. He walks the empty streets that can’t belong to London, not the fierce city he’s so proud to be living in. And the silence is somehow louder than any other sound. It’s a delicate moment in which Death walks beside Crowley, collecting dust that used to be alive mere seconds ago, before people come out of the ground and press play once again in the game of survival.

It’s not always easy, but he’s usually able to detach himself. He thinks about the Ineffable Plan and convinces himself that there is a greater good, there has to be, otherwise it means that nothing, nothing matters, and that prospect is far too frightening to be worth being considered. Funny how when he used to be an angel he always doubted divine plans while now, after almost six thousand years on Earth, he desperately wants to believe in them. That’s called “faith”, possibly, in some dark and twisted way.

One night, amidst the deafening silence, he found a teddy bear in the ruins. He showed weakness, for the first and last time during the war. Besides, there was just Death to witness. He knelt and picked it up and cried, the only sound to be heard for miles and miles. He would’ve even prayed, if only he’d remembered how to do it. Truly dark years, if even demons resort to prayers.

He was vaguely aware of Aziraphale standing behind him, piercing him with wet eyes and unasked questions. He had ignored him, too lost in his own grief. Neither of them has mentioned that night so far, and probably neither of them ever will. Besides, they rarely talk these days.

Contrary to the last war, this time he didn’t wait for an angel’s smile; he ran into a church and claimed that blessed smile at the risk of being discorporated. It was worth it, obviously.

Now he’s looking at Aziraphale, who is too busy concentrating to be paying any attention to him, and wonders what exactly is the nature of their relationship. He’s thinking about a song, the most beautiful celestial harmony he can recall, but soon discards it. It’s not really what he’s looking for. It’s something that starts unexpectedly with a loud bang, and then gets quieter, and grows louder and louder until the orchestra tumbles and silence falls. Like the silence that scares him in the streets of London.

He wants to ask, because he truly has no idea wether it’s the town’s noise or the angel’s silence that is driving him mad.

«Crowley… Help…» he whispers, and he snaps out of his pensive trance. He gently takes the weight of the Underground’s ceiling off Aziraphale’s shoulders and on his own. They’ve been doing this for four years, like Atlas in their little world. Activate the sirens. Take people to the shelter. Divert the bombs. Make sure the ceiling doesn’t collapse. Let people go home. Repeat. Again, and again, and again.

When the raid is over, they part their ways without even saying goodbye. Perhaps one day he’ll hear the angel’s merry voice again. Perhaps one day their sweet music will start playing again.

**Soho, 6 October 1961**

He immediately senses that something’s wrong.

For starts, the bookshop is closed. It’s not that unusual, truth be told; the opening hours have always been erratic, to discourage potential clients. What’s unusual is that it’s been closed for four years now. On top of it, Aziraphale is not there most of the time, and that’s definitely weird. However, when they do see each other, everything seems fine, so he never voices whatever doubt he might have.

It’s well past midnight and Crowley produces a key he’s owned since 1800 (“You know, just in case”

“In case of what?”

Aziraphale had never elaborated further, for some reason.)

There was a time when the bookshop had been the most familiar place in all of London, even more than his own apartment. He would know by heart the entire catalogue and the location of each and every book. He knew the place like the palm of his hand. There was a tricky step by the entrance, so subtle that every single person who set foot in the shop would trip over it; Crowley was rather proud of that addiction of his. The bookshop had been a sort of home for him for nearly 62 years. When he came back, 79 years later, things had changed, but so had Aziraphale and so had Crowley, so he told himself he just needed to get used to it again. Easier said than done.

However, certain things never change, or so he believes. Despite Aziraphale’s best efforts, there’s always been this lingering, undefinable scent that lured you rather than drive you away. It was a delicate mixture of old books and incense, difficult to describe but undoubtedly fascinating. He doesn’t know it yet, but it’s also not there anymore, lost in almost a century full of history.

After the Blitz, Crowley and Aziraphale stopped meeting each other in the Underground, in favour of St. James Park. It took some time to regain the intimacy they used to have, and yet there’s still the feeling that they are not quite there yet. This means that the last time Crowley stepped into the bookshop was exactly one hundred years ago. He’s not prepared to what is waiting for him.

Being a snake, he’s more sensitive to smells than humans. His tongue flickers in the blink on an eye and he realises that something is wrong, really wrong: there are no odours at all. The shop feels cold and aseptic, making him feel deeply uncomfortable. He sits by the desk and leafs through the nearest volume, not really interested in it, wondering what could’ve possibly happened. And waits.

It’s well past midnight when the bell on the door rings and someone trips over the faulty step. He helps Aziraphale up and notices two dreadful things. One: he’s drunk, and that’s shocking; Crowley has never seen him drunk, not once, not ever. Two: he smells like whiskey, and sweat, and something else he can’t define, but it’s definitely awful.

«Where the hell have you been? What happened?»

Aziraphale is only vaguely aware of his surroundings. Not a good sign.

«Just a… reg… regu… normal Sunday night.»

«It’s Thursday. Well, technically, it was Thursday, must be Friday by now.»

«Whatever.» He falls on the sofa and closes his eyes.

This is far worse than Crowley expected. He can’t cope with a drunken Aziraphale, so he snaps his fingers to sober him up. The smell of alcohol is still in the air.

The angel covers his eyes with a hand and sighs. «What are you doing here?»

«Oh, no, you don’t get to ask question. I’m the one asking, you sit there and answer me, understood?»

He peeks through his fingers. This is new. And bizarre.

«Where have you been?»

«What do you care?»

«I said, where have you been?»

«You’re not my mother. Mind your own business!»

It clicks. It’s the early sixties, it’s Soho, he’s male-presenting. Of course, he’s been to a gay pub. Wait, what?

He recalls the whole business of the guy who died in Mayfair in 1918; it had something to do with gross indecency and a scandal.

Whatever happened in the late 19th century, it had deeply broken Aziraphale, possibly beyond repair. He cursed himself under his breath for not having been there. From what he’s gathered, it’s a miracle he hasn’t fallen; deep down, he still hopes his conclusions are wrong.

He’s not sure what to say. He feels like he’s walking on thin ice. «The bookshop’s different.» he tries.

«Must be the change of management. Asher Fell doesn’t own it anymore, I’m afraid. Nor Ishmael. Or Remiel.» His voice breaks upon mentioning that last name. Crowley doesn’t push it; instead, he makes a mental note to investigate further in the future.

«Asher?»

«Asher Ziv Fell. The letters on the sign do mean something.»

«Do they? I’ve always wondered who’s behind Co.»

«Not sure. What was your grandfather’s name?»

«Really? Do I look like I own a bookshop?»

«Appearance can be deceptive.»

He’s secretly pleased, though he won’t admit it. After all, this is kind of his place too.

«So, who owns it now?»

«Ezra J. Fell. He’s Asher’s great-grandson, or great-great-grandson, I don’t remember which one is it. It hardly matters, doesn’t it?»

«Yeah. Wait, what does the J. stands for?»

«It’s just a J.» Aziraphale is staring at him, and it’s impossible to decipher his gaze. It’s making Crowley uncomfortable as much as the lack of smell.

«Right.»

An unbearable silence settles, during which the demon hopes to come up with something clever to say. He doesn’t.

«Crowley, why are you here?»

“Because I missed you, I missed you so much and I hate this whole situation. I’m sorry for what I did, I didn’t mean to screw up, I only wanted holy water because it’s the only thing that will get rid off any demon who dares to put himself between us.”

He comes up with a watered down truth instead. «Have you considered moving to Mayfair?»

Aziraphale frowns.

«I mean, living in Soho now is not like a century ago. The place is full of… bad influences. Sinners. Might be dangerous for an angel.»

He tries to read between the lines and fails. «Aren’t sinners the ones who need angelic influences the most? Besides, these people are not dangerous at all. They’re my people.»

He doesn’t like the implications at all. He groans, frustrated. «At least, be careful. Getting drunk won’t have angelic influences on anyone. And try to be a woman, if you really must have relationships with men, for somebody’s sake.»

«Why? - Aziraphale pretends to be confused, but he obviously isn’t. He’s not as naive as he used to be - It wasn’t necessary among the Greeks. Or the Romans.»

«Yes, but you didn’t have outlawed sexual intercourses with the Romans, angel, that’s the bloody difference!»

Aziraphale’s silence speaks volumes.

«No. You didn’t really… Have you gone mad?»

«I must kindly ask you to leave.»

«But…»

«Get out, demon!»

Crowley is too stunned to properly react, so he doesn’t oppose resistance when he’s pushed out of the bookshop.

That was meant to be a hyperbole, not the truth. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit. This is wrong, wrong, wrong. This is not Aziraphale. This is a fallen angel who has not fallen, surprisingly. This is someone who has suffered a great deal and is licking his wounds in the most inappropriate way.

Is it possible for angels to suffer from depression? He doesn’t know. What he does know is that blaming himself is easier than blaming him. “Where were you when your angel needed you the most?”

The smell of whiskey haunts him. There is no way out of this mess.

**Hyde Park, 6 July 1996**

By 1967, Aziraphale is back to being his usual self, the one who used to watch Shakespearean comedies by Crowley’s side or take him to lunch in Paris during the Reign of Terror. He even gave the demon a flask of holy water, trusting him a great deal; the most awful chapter of their lives is finally over.

It’s lunch time, they’re sitting on a blanket on the grass in Hyde Park, a basket and a bottle of champagne between them. Crowley can’t help but feeling grateful. “Perhaps we can go for a picnic, someday.” had said Aziraphale that night. And here they are, having a nice picnic. Progress is slow, but it doesn’t matter; after all, they have all the time in the world.

«Remind me, why do we keep coming here every year since 1972?» he asks playfully.

There’s a new unspoken rule now, both in Heaven and on Earth, that says that Aziraphale is the guardian angel of the - as it has now been renamed - the LGBT community. Crowley’s fine with it. He justifies himself by claiming that people coming out spread hate among families; of course he doesn’t like to put it that way, but Hell does, so it’s sort of alright.

He’s glad that things have changed, that finally Aziraphale is happy and safe. He no longer risks to fall because of a hedonistic, highly immoral lifestyle. He doesn’t even interact with humans that much these days; he helps them, befriend them, but nothing more. The worst that could happen to him is to be mistaken for Crowley’s partner by random people on the streets. Crowley doesn’t mind it at all; actually, he secretly likes it. He wonders if Aziraphale doesn’t mind it too. Probably not, judging by the way his fingers brush the other’s for far too long when taking the glass of champagne handed to him.

«My dear boy, you know perfectly well why. Cheers!»

The glasses clink against each others.

People march past them, thousands of people, waving colourful banners, laughing, singing, kissing.

«I just love all this love! Look at them, how happy they are! Look at how they glow when they are unafraid to be who they are. It’s beautiful.»

Aziraphale glows too, Crowley thinks. His hair is golden under the gleaming sun, his eyes sparkle with enthusiasm. He tries not to stare too long at his rosy cheeks, or else he might tempt himself into caressing them; more than that, he tries to avoid his lips.

He’s been thinking about it for quite a long time - 29 years, to be precise. He’s always been aware of the feelings he harbours for him, despite not daring to say it out loud, or even admitting them for several millennia. But now things seem to be different, easier, maybe, apart from the small detail of him being a demon and he an angel. He hopes that’s something they can sort out. Now things seem to be different because he suspects those feelings are mutual. He wants to ask, but doesn’t want to risk; so he keeps hoping, and staring, and longing for his touch.

«Is everything alright, dear? You are unusually quiet.»

«Am I? Nah, don’t worry, it’s fine. I’m fine. Just thinking.»

«About what?»

“About that couple over there. You see them? How softly they’re hugging? How one of them is shielding the other with a flag? That could be us, if we forget about Heaven and Hell for a second. Can we?”

«About London Pride. Is it one of ours or one of yours?»

Aziraphale smiles fondly. «I can’t recall.»

Of course he does, they both do. It’s one of those things human invented themselves. Doesn’t mean they didn’t both put a hand in it; in the end, they both earned a commendation from the respective sides.

«That reminds me of that time a friend of mine was accused of being the leader of an underground organisation composed by 47,000 gay men here in London. Of course it’s ridiculous, but we found the idea rather amusing. I wish he was here now; I bet he would’ve loved it.»

Aziraphale’s smile fades. Crowley knows exactly who he’s talking about, even though he’s not supposed to. One day he’ll find the courage to ask, but right now his priority is cheering his friend up.

He puts the glass down and gets up. The basket, the bottle and the glasses disappear as he extends his hand.

«Do angels dance?»

Aziraphale looks puzzled. «No, they don’t. Do demons?»

«Not really. Once in a disco in the 70s a guy mocked my moves. Let’s say it was an eventful night.»

Aziraphale hand is delicate and impeccably manicured, his skin smooth and soft, and his fingers fit perfectly against Crowley’s.

They move around quite awkwardly. Neither of them really knows how to dance; neither of them cares.

Aziraphale’s head ends up on Crowley’s shoulder, who suspects his body is going to spontaneously combust. He’s never been so intimately close to him, or at least not in a long time. He thinks it would be a lovely yet weird way to die.

«Crowley?» he calls, uncertain.

«Yes, angel?»

«Can you feel it? All this love, I mean. It’s so strong that even you might be able to sense it.»

Crowley is grateful to Someone that Aziraphale can’t see his stupid, blissful grin.

“Oh, I do, my angel. I do”

**Berkeley Square, 2 June 2024**

He wouldn’t call it a date, despite it actually being one. It’s more of an anniversary anyway, though he wouldn’t use that word either, because it would imply that there is something more than friendship in their relationship; there is, but it’s not official, so he ignores the voice in the back of his head that keeps calling this a date.

Actually, they don’t go to the Ritz that often. When they eat together, they prefer to explore little restaurants. “We must support local businesses” had declared Aziraphale, or something like that.

(«Besides, isn’t it more interesting than dining at the same old place every day?»

«But they have the most expensive wine, I like good wine.»

«You do realise those are not synonyms, don’t you?»)

They’ve been building this new habit slowly and without much thought. It started with occasional take-away sushi late at night at the bookshop, then weekly outings, depending on what they felt like eating on the appointed Saturday night. Now Crowley’s fridge is always full and they end up having lunch at his place every day, like it’s some kind of ritual.

If someone had told Crowley a decade ago that someday he would’ve had lunch every day, he wouldn’t have believed them. He didn’t need food, so it seemed a pointless waste of time. And anyway his sense of taste is more similar to that of snakes than humans’, meaning he doesn’t have taste buds; he tried to explain it to Aziraphale once, but the angel struggled to grasp the concept.

(«What do you mean you don’t have taste buds?»

«It’s a snake-biology thingy. I just, you know, flick my tongue and smell. It’s like taste, really. Don’t see why you have to separate the two senses, they’re basically the same!»

«No, they’re not!»

«Well, they are to me.»)

He still doesn’t eat much, but he does eat. Although, even more unexpectedly, he realised a couple of years ago that he prefers cooking. So the habit goes like this, Crowley cooks and Aziraphale eats. There’s a certain intimacy in it, a sense of domestic life that shouldn’t be possible for angels or demons. It’s not perfect, not yet, but it’s enough to make Crowley wonder what would it be like to live under the same roof, to properly share a house. He tries not to think about it, as he tries not to label lunches as dates; he fails most of the time.

They don’t go to the Ritz that often, but they go there once a year, on June 2nd. It’s another habit they’ve been building in the past five years, to readjust their lives after having lost their respective sides for good. It’s about tiny details that make them both feel grounded, like they still belong to somewhere. Except somewhere is not a place, but rather each other’s presence.

After lunch, they sit on a bench in Berkeley Square and silently watch passers-by. Kids pretending to be fearless pirates, teenagers snogging not-so-discretely, young couples strolling pushchairs and old couples walking hand in hand.

«It’s wonderful, isn’t it? - says Aziraphale, licking his ice-cream - And to think all of this might have been swept away! I’m so glad the Apocalypse has been averted.»

«Yeah, me too.»

There’s a stain of chocolate on Aziraphale’s cheek, which makes Crowley smile fondly. Day after day, the angel is more and more human, and probably he, too, is less and less of a demon. “It’s not bad, once you get used to it.” he thinks.

«Crowley?»

«Mh?»

«I’ve been thinking. It’s been five years now, maybe… don’t you think it’s time for a change?»

He’s confused. Time to change what, exactly? Things are fine - they are fine - why change anything?

«You remember Anathema and Newt’s wedding last year, don’t you? It was lovely. So, I was thinking, is it possible - I mean, if you want to, of course - could we… be like them?»

«You mean married?»

«I mean, living together. Leave London. Buy a cottage somewhere. We are retired, after all.»

Crowley frowns. He’s not sure whether he’s imagining it or it’s happening for real. He’s not sure what to say, either, so he settles for a neutral statement. «What about the bookshop?»

«I’d be satisfied with a library. Actually, it seems to be the best option. I’m running out of excuses to drive away costumers.»

«And you’d be happy? In the middle of nowhere, with… me?»

Neither of them dares to look at the other. Crowley’s eyes wander from person to person, from tree to tree. Aziraphale is staring at his ice-cream with so much intensity, as if his own life depends on it.

«Wouldn’t you?»

Something snaps inside Crowley’s mind. Here it is, the promise of the perfect future, within reach. Only a fool would turn that down.

«Do you… love me?»

«Oh, my dear, - he whispers adoringly - wasn’t that obvious?»

Carefully, Crowley turns his head to find Aziraphale looking expectantly at him. Carefully, he learns towards him; it’s the angel who fills the gap.

As they kiss, every piece falls into place. This is where they truly belong. “ ‘till Death do us part. Or the next Armageddon. Or whatever.”

Crowley’s overwhelmed, so much that he feels the urge to breath, despite not technically needing it.

Aziraphale laughs. «You have chocolate on your lips, my dear.»

«Oh, angel, I’ve just tasted something far better.»

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Wait_ by the Beatles.  
Hope you liked it. Kudos and comments are highly appreciated!  
Thanks for reading!  
_[Rodya](https://sherry-smith.tumblr.com)_


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